


Polaroid

by draculard



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abusive Lonnie, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dubious Consent on Both Sides, Extremely Underage, F/M, Mother/Son Incest, Neither wants this and both want this, implied sexual abuse from Lonnie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 09:03:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17846453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Joyce is the one who taught him to love the camera.





	Polaroid

Joyce is the one who taught him to love the camera.

She instilled that lesson in him early on, the same way she taught him to love his skin. Jonathan has never been good at making friends, and it’s a long time before Will comes along, when it’s just him and Joyce. When Lonnie forces Jonathan to do something he doesn’t want to do, he can always run to Joyce for sanctuary.

Joyce doesn’t make him do things.

Jonathan  _ wants  _ to do things. 

At seventeen, he can still remember when she used to bathe him, her hands warm, rubbing soap down his bare back, his arms. She is gentle and frail where Lonnie is rough and strong. His hands leave welts on Jonathan’s skin, and Joyce is always there to soothe them.

And he is always there to soothe her.

The first time he poses for her camera, it’s all his idea. What he’s noticed is that Joyce seems fearful of big, strong men like his father, and if Jonathan knows anything, it’s that he and Lonnie are nothing alike. Jonathan is as small and weak and unthreatening as his mother. That means he can’t protect her in fights, but it also means she doesn’t flinch away from him when he touches her, when he crawls into bed at night when Lonnie is gone..

Joyce is crying, and Jonathan thinks he knows how to cheer her up.

“Mommy?”

She looks up at his voice, high and unbroken by puberty, and sees him standing there at the foot of the bed, her camera in his hands. Her breath hitches, then stops altogether.

“Jonathan --?” she starts.

“Take pictures of me, Mommy.” He shoves the camera into her hands and is already posing before she realizes what’s going on. Jonathan is naked as the day he was born, fresh from his bath, and he makes sure she can get everything in the shot.

Still, Joyce hesitates.

“I want to see what I look like,” Jonathan insists, and finally she takes the picture. Afterward, he sits in her lap and they stare at it together, waiting for the Polaroid to develop. Joyce is hyperaware of his bare skin, he can tell -- she’s exuding warmth from under her worn flannel shirt, and her cheeks are flushed, and she can’t stop staring at the picture of Jonathan.

Neither can he. He puts his hands between his legs, on top of his small penis, and feels a thrill go through him at the contact. Experimentally, he strokes himself, and while he doesn’t get hard like Lonnie does, it still feels good. Amazingly good. He leans his head back, resting against Joyce’s breasts. Her lips are pursed and she’s trying not to look at him, trying to pretend she doesn’t know what’s going on.

Soon, Jonathan doesn’t just love the camera.

He craves it.

The camera is for him and Joyce alone, not Lonnie. The Polaroids wind up stuffed in an old cookie tin, and Joyce hides it inside the non-functional dishwasher, where Lonnie will never find it. She and Jonathan work out a routine in no time -- she bathes him at night when Lonnie is out, both of them silent and quivering with tension. When he’s clean, she dries him with a towel, rubbing him down slowly. First his hair, then his shoulders, her fingers gripping him through the material. Then his back and chest, the rough fiber brushing against his nipples. Then lower, lower….

In the bedroom, Joyce takes a new photo, and Jonathan crawls into her lap like a toddler and stares at it. Over the years, he watches himself grow in those photos. He feels Joyce against him -- the sharpness of her ribs, the softness of her breasts -- and he knows when she starts touching herself to the photos, too, first playing with her nipples, then slipping her hand into her pants to play with her clit. He doesn’t say anything, just like she never says anything to him.

“Let me taste you, Mommy,” he whispers, and she touches herself, she gasps in pleasure, but she pretends not to hear. When he finds her nipple with his mouth, she pretends not to feel.

But in time, she’ll acknowledge him, Jonathan knows.

She loves him. She loves the camera just as much as he does. 


End file.
